


Hamam

by onthewaters



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthewaters/pseuds/onthewaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for this prompt (http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5516.html?thread=11038860&style=mine#t11038860) at the kinkmeme: Holmes gives Watson all the pleasures of the baths at home. Well, OK, not by heating the room to high temperatures ;D but waiting on him, washing/scrubbing him, massaging him, wrapping him in warm towels, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hamam

**Author's Note:**

> ***
> 
> If you consider posting this work to Goodreads: Please do not do it. These stories are fanfiction, and I don't want them near a site that's primarily for published original fiction.
> 
> While I appreciate that you might enjoy having them on your Goodreads shelves, please respect my wishes.
> 
> Thank you.

Rain in February is not an unusual occurrence in London. Neither is sleet, and neither is air so wet that clothes take two days longer to dry, that cheap wallpaper begins to well under the constant damp which finds its way into the houses, the slick cobbles of the streets, into our very bones. My clothes had been clammy for weeks now and neither fire nor the gaslight could banish the chill that seemed to have taken over my bones. I could not help but think longingly of India where _cold_ and _chill_ are but myths fathers tell their foreign-born children and where the tips of my fingers would not resemble those of a corpse. 

Worst of all, my shoulder, not truly whole since Afghanistan, ached abominably. None of my usual methods to ease it worked for long since the cold that pervaded my very flesh worked harshly against any relief I could provide. I knew fellow veterans who had left England entirely for warmer climes to soothe their old wounds and swore by Egyptian sun or Greek springs. My wounds were not yet so very old; I held onto hope.

Pain and pressure of the damp did make me somewhat short with my fellow lodger. But Holmes, as always, would already have deduced the reason for my shortness and since he had not mentioned it, I assumed I was forgiven. While he is not the most patient of men, he has long learned that he must make a few allowances for my frailties. Little though he likes it. 

Nevertheless, all I wanted, as I returned wet to the bone from my errands, was to change into something dry and sit in front of the fire with hot tea and toast until I felt a little less like a merman and somewhat more human. The fact that someone was moving furniture upstairs did nothing for my temper.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

No answer. Most likely the worthy lady had closed her own doors to the scraping sounds. I sighed and trudged up the stairs, feeling twice my age at least. A crash reverberated through the wood beneath my feet and I sped up. Whatever Holmes was doing up there, if he was destroying Mrs. Hudson’s furniture and she put us out on the street in this weather –

The door to the bath was wide open, framing Holmes in his shirtsleeves, sinews cording under his skin as he wrestled the dining room table all the way into the bath.

“Holmes!”

“Ah, Watson,” he greeted me. “My apologies for the noise, I meant to be done by now.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. “Done with what.”

He shook his head and wiped sweat off his neck. “I shall show you in a moment.”

Truly, this could be anything. But if he intended to dissect a body in our bath, I would leave Holmes, Baker Street, and London altogether, I swore to myself. 

“Watson, do take off those wet clothes, and come right back down,” Holmes instructed and pushed at the table. How he had gotten it – solid wood with a thin marble top – all the way up the stairs alone, I would be interested to hear. Even more so how he thought he was getting it down again. But I was too tired and too wet to complain and so I did as I was bid. By the time I returned, he had transformed the bath. 

The tub had been pushed all the way against the outer wall, likewise the wash stand and all other movables. The only thing remaining in the center of the bath was the table, scrubbed down by Holmes’ hands. A scent of olive hung in the air, and the tub held hot water.

“Holmes?”

He smiled at me hesitating in the doorway. “Undress, my boy. Or should you like help?”

“What is all this?”

He shrugged and his deceptively thin shoulders rippled under the shirt. It was an old one, possibly one of mine. “Did I set the scene so badly that you cannot tell?” He clasped his hands together and his entire bearing changed to one I knew well from the Turkish baths closed for another three weeks. “Kese, sir?”

Well. I am only human, as they say. I stripped and Holmes took each item of clothing from me with a small bow, folding it and laying it on a chair. When I stood bare before him, he led me to the table and helped me lie on it. The marble was smooth and he had already wetted it down with near boiling water, heating it slightly. Now he folded a small towel into a pillow to put under my head while I lay face down, shivering in the cool air. 

I heard splashes of water, then a steady stream of blessedly warm water hit first my shoulders, then trailed down my spine, across my buttocks and legs. Warmth suffused me for a moment before the water cooled; but by then Holmes had filled the bowl again and again covered me with fresh, warm water. I could not help but sigh as my cramped, cold body began to finally relax.

A hand rested on my whole shoulder for a moment, then I heard a scraping sound and felt roughness. At the Turkish baths, the aleppo soap is prepared ahead of time; Holmes had done the same and now scraped the rough glove across the soap cube, then across my skin. 

I shall tell you a secret now: kese, while leaving you so clean that you feel you should sparkle, hurts at first. Your skin, tender organ that it is, needs toughening up, be it by silk or by goat hair glove. The masseur must be told where to press hard and where to be gentle. Holmes knew these spots and drew the glove across my back tenderly at first, then exerted more pressure, never too much. I suppose he had practice deducing all my thoughts from my every twitch and gasp, but he never shares those deductions as we lie beside each other. But that he deduces I do know, and he did it now, as I never once had to ask him to ease up or bear down harder. And he was tender, ever so careful with the knotted lump of scar tissue which is all that remains of my left shoulder. 

He stroked the glove across the soap again, then down my legs and buttocks and between them, and it made me smile a little how much care he took in that area. He dipped a little further across my perineum, and before you wonder: no, it is not a service I take advantage of at the Turkish baths. 

More hot water, more aleppo soap for the back of my arms, then he bid me turn, which was even better as it allowed me to watch him was me, handling the glove as if he regularly cleaned men in a public bath. Possibly he did, my mind decided to wander, as a disguise and a method of finding out more about the men who went there. I smiled, and he answered my smile, the glove skirting my nipples – another area where more care is indicated. More aleppo soap followed for the soft area of my belly, my sides, and my legs. He lifted my arms tenderly, scrubbing all the way along them to my hands, between my fingers, bit by bit. He held my hand high, resting on his shoulder to reach my armpit and on impulse I turned my hand to cup his face. He faltered for a moment, then leaned into my touch, pressing a soft little kiss on my soapy palm, leaving a light green sheen on his lips. I found I could hardly look away. 

Having washed me thoroughly, he covered my front with water several times, then urged me to turn over. More hot water, then his hands dug into muscle and scar tissue and I knew that now came the unpleasant part; there is too much strain on my body for true ease, and that strain must be kneaded out as if I were a loaf of bread to be baked, and occasionally beaten out with all the strength the masseur can muster. My shoulder no longer bends easily, and it takes much experience to know how far it will go. Holmes turned out to be cruel but effective. He kneaded to the point of pain and passed that point manipulating my recalcitrant joint exactly to the degree most useful. He must have known that there were tears in my eyes, but he said nothing. I could not help feeling grateful, and knew that I would be even more so if tomorrow I was able to put on my shirt without having to resort to lift my arm on a chair’s back. 

On finishing my back, he helped me turn again, and when I’d settled he peered at my face almost worriedly. I nodded to let him know that I would be fine and he settled down to turn me to jelly altogether. 

I let my eyes fall closed and wondered how far he would go with it. There are those in the Turkish baths who let men find their release, either by hand or by mouth. But apart from the earlier moment, Holmes wasn’t playing a role now, I considered as he again covered me with hot water. Well, this was his – how to say it – idea, performance, play, I would be content to see where it would lead. 

By the time Holmes had kneaded my body into submission and finally relaxation, kept me warm by way of water, and I was nearly ready to fall asleep, I finally felt his hand on my prick, tentatively at first, then more confidently as I hardened. But I found that my intention for contentment did not extend so far and tapped his side. He turned to me, and I saw surprise – just for an instant – when I pulled him down for a kiss. I pushed his hand aside and embraced him. His hands pushed at the towel pillowing my head, replacing it, and I was being kissed as I wanted to be, warm as the water, tender as the aleppo soap, firmly as his hands on my body. 

Finally he withdrew and after covering me with water one last time, he wrapped me into a towel, and just shrugged when I grinned at him, wet with his clothing sticking to his skin. 

“Your bed has a coal pan, dear boy,” he said, sounding slightly hoarse. “I shall put the room to rights, then –“

“That,” said I, looking around, “will take you days.”

He shrugged, as if the total destruction of Mrs. Hudson’s dining room table was not a concern at all. “Go to bed and stay warm, Watson. I shall find you later.”

I smiled and kissed him again. “I cannot wait.”

End.


End file.
